


Steam and Mist

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Melancholy, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:03:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were the only two in the compartment. It felt like they were the only two in the world.</p><p>
  <strong>Now updated with artwork by garonne!</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steam and Mist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sabrina_Phynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabrina_Phynn/gifts).



> Written in response to the following prompts: Trains, Shoes, This morning's sky, And, In the holiday spirit... Shortbread. 
> 
> Warnings: More of a mood piece than anything else.

[Artwork by [garonne](http://garonne.livejournal.com)]  
  
The rocking of the train carriage might have been soothing under other circumstances. I had certainly found myself lulled to sleep by the motion many times before, and I had rarely been so tired on those occasions as I was now.  
  
And yet I forced fatigue back, my attention focused on Holmes, who sat stiffly upright and silent across from me. We were the only two in the first-class compartment.  
  
In the early dawn light, morning mist lit faintly with streaks of red and gold and hints of blue, it felt like we were the only two people in the entire world.  
  
Some call me a man of words. I am not, not of spoken ones at any rate. I am a writer, not an orator; a man of action, not speeches.  Yet I cudgeled my sluggish brain in search of the right ones all the same. A vain, hopeless quest, I knew. It wouldn’t matter if I had the divine gift of Homer, not in the face of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. But though I am all too familiar with the futility of lost causes, I struggle on nonetheless.  
  
A casual observer would never see anything wrong. My friend’s posture gave no sign of his state of mind, his still, remote face the very picture of calm. But my years with him gave me insights, a pale imitation of my friend’s extraordinary observational skills. So the faint wrinkles in his shirt; the lack of gloss on his shoes; the slight sag of his collar; all spoke volumes to me.  
  
And still, no words would come. I shifted in my seat, restless with frustration and exhaustion, and halted as something rustled in my coat pocket. For a moment I could not imagine what it was, and then a flash of memory: the housekeeper, roused with the rest of the household at the dramatic conclusion of events, hastily pressing a paper-wrapped packet into my hand as we left. Provisions of some kind for the journey home, a kindness forgotten until this very moment. Curious, I drew out the package and opened it to see a half-dozen golden oblongs, generously dusted with sugar. Shortbread. A child’s nursery treat. Unintentional, perhaps, but a potent reminder of the small life we did save, though we were too late for the father.  
  
I extended the treat towards Holmes almost before I completed the thought. “Biscuit, Holmes?”  
  
My friend blinked, and his eyes, which had been fixed on nothing in particular (and had been so since shortly after we boarded the train), abruptly focused on me. He blinked again, and his gaze flickered down to the shortbread before returning to my face. A hesitation, and then he reached out with one long-fingered hand and took two.  
  
“Thank you, Watson.” His voice was lower than normal, and rough with the long hours of silence. One corner of his mouth turned up faintly. Not a smile, but I felt the warmth of it perhaps all the more for the lack, just as I heard all he could not say behind his words.  
  
“Of course, my dear fellow,” I murmured. “Of course.”


End file.
